


Unfinished Business

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Belgian NT, Everton, Gen, Juventus, Manchester United
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 19:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12637455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Paul Pogba and Romelu Lukaku. Each man knows with every fibre that they are alone and far away from where they want to be.





	Unfinished Business

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blindbatalex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/gifts).



> For blindbatalex as promised: a Pogba/Lukaku fic. It just... grew. Sorry.
> 
> Sorry, it's unbeta'd so... reader beware, yeah?

**December 2015**

“Mourinho wants you.”

“ _Hein_?” Paul raised an eyebrow, pushing his dark glasses from his eyes to his forehead, in order to see Mino Raiola’s face as his agent eclipsed the light from his sun. 

“You heard me,” Mino snapped, as he shuffled and planted his bulk into the chair opposite Paul, and Paul still left his shades still perched on his forehead, as Mino grabbed at a menu and frowned. 

Christmas break and Paul grabbed at the chance to fly to somewhere hot. Hot enough to make his skin sweat, to simmer his bones with warmth. Jumeirah Mina A’ Salam had been the ticket, with chroma blue skies, and aquamarine seas in the near distance over the tops of palm trees, and the view of _that_ hotel with the silhouette of a sail. The sun picking up the colours running from deep ultramarine to the softest of foam blue, tied in together with the white. 

All this over his mid-morning lunch of a carefully curated meal, balancing his needs of protein and carbs, designed around maintenance of a certain level of fitness and recovery. In his mind, Paul visualised himself having a light meal, and then walking along the beach for a minute. He had a few hours to kill before a few of his friends flew in, and thought about spending them alone, but Mino’s call changed all that.

_“We need to talk,” Mino snapped over the phone, social mores be damned._

_“For shame, Mino,” Paul tutted over the phone, when they’d spoken sixteen hours ago- “no, ‘hello, how’s my favourite client today?’”_

_”Who says you’re my favourite?” Mino shot back, “but you might be. Don’t move until I get there.”_

Paul and Mino now seated by the poolside of Jumeirah Mina A’ Salam, and Mino fanned at himself with the menu. “This place, eh?” he muttered in Italian, and it was harder to say which upset him, Paul’s lack of reaction at Mourinho’s name, or the heat. Due to his bulk, and his tendency to sweat profusely through his clothing, Mino was a man who loved the temperate summers of Europe. Whenever he came to this part of the world, he refused to be seated anywhere without air conditioning. So for him to be outside voluntarily for all of -- and at this Paul checked his watch--- ten minutes was a big thing. 

Jose Mourinho was a big thing. 

“Mourinho?” Paul rubbed at his chin deep in thought. “Why would he want me?”

At Mino’s pointed glare --- which could be felt through the heavy black lenses of his shades--- Paul smiled at his agent. False modesty suited neither of them, so he moved past that game quickly. 

“More importantly,” Paul grinned, before popping a plump, sweet, ripe fig into his mouth and chewed around it, “Why should I go?”

“Why should you go?” Mino pressed his index finger against the bridge of his glasses, dragging them down his nose a fraction so that he could eyeball Paul satisfactorily. “ _Why should you go?_ ” he repeated, incredulity threading through his voice, kicking it two octaves higher, to the point where other people raised their heads from their tables. 

“You heard me,” Paul rolled his shoulders, leaning back in his chair, the movement jostling his eyeglasses to slip from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. “The English clubs haven’t done well in Champions League since 2009. The Spanish clubs are the place to be, like Real Madrid and Barcelona. Also, I’m happy at Juve.”

“Bull. Shit.” 

“ _Hein?_ ” Paul repeated, knowing that Mino _hated_ when he did that. Retreated into French as a way of expressing distance or sentiment, before venturing into English. Mino’s French competent and comfortable, but the languages they spoke between them tended to be primarily Italian or English. 

“You heard me,” Mino said, “Juve has been good for you, but it’s time for you to take the step up. If you want the world to see what you are _now_ , you can’t stay in Serie A.”

“I’m comfortable there, with Buffon, Bonacci, and ---”

“Comfort goes hand in hand with complacency and death,” Mino dismissed, still fanning his face with his menu. “Buffon and Bonacci are elder statesmen, and _Italian_ , that appeals to their romance. It’s fantastic for them and all that bullshit, but you’re not _them_ ,” Mino’s finger resting on every beat as if he were a conductor in front of an orchestra. 

“Besides,” Mino continued when Paul opened his mouth to continue, “you know you’re far away from where you want to be, where you’re meant to be.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, ‘oh’,” Mino’s voice going from bullish and strident to soft and sly, so soft, Paul leaned in to hear the rest of what he had to say. “You know it, Paul. It’s a feeling in your bones. Yes, you win _Scudetti_ with Juventus, but is this really where you were meant to be?”

“You’re talking about England.”

Mino pushed himself forward, his head near Paul’s. “You’re smarter than that. You know what Mourinho is offering.”

Paul popped another fig in his mouth, the fruit suddenly tasteless. He knew what Mino meant. 

And yet. 

He drew back from his agent, sank into the cushioned luxury of his chair, looking out at the surface of the pool, gently rippling under the caress of zephyr winds. Looked out further, seeing palm trees and thatched huts which shielded people from the sun and offered cold refreshments. The sea in the distance far and gentle enough for the noise sooth his now jangled nerves. 

“I’ll have to think about it,” he said at last.

Mino was right, he knew what Mourinho was offering. Knew what he’d set in motion if he said yes, if the name of his old club sprang to the tip of his tongue. 

“Think about your brand,” Mino breathed, and breaking down, he plucked a fig from the silver bowl in between them. The face he made as he chewed on the fig a picture, because Mino didn’t much like... fruit. With a hard swallow, he went on. “The world is waiting for you, Paul, but football and favour are fickle. They never wait for long. Are you willing to say yes?”

“I’ll think about it,” Paul repeated.

***

“It’s so unfair, you don’t have a winter break,” Paul said, his head bobbing around in the screen on Romelu’s iPad. The leaden skies told the story of a winter in Turin. Still, Romelu knew, as he unfurled his body on the sofa in his living room, snuggling into his blanket, despite the house being equipped with double glazed windows and top-notch heating.

“It is,” Romelu agreed, “I see that you’re back in Turin. After Dubai, it must be a shock.”

“ _Mon ami_...” Paul drawled, before laughing, the image shaking gonzo style as he turned the key to his door and let himself into his flat. Music already on, the French rap that Paul liked so much, his hat off, and now Paul boasting a platinum blonde do with black trident stripes to its side. “Back to _the grind_ as they say, no? Although, you’ve never stopped.”

“I’m like a shark, man,” Romelu laughed, flexing the muscle of his arm to show his friend that he meant business. Not that Paul could see it under his loose pj top. With winter in the UK he didn’t risk going around barechested if he didn’t need to. “Always moving, never resting.”

“Hah,” Paul grinned, his image now still.

He sat at the table, with a meal in front of him. Coat and beanie shucked off, Adidas shell top hinting that he’d just came back from training, because winter break in Turin didn’t just mean... to stop doing everything. You still had to maintain your physical levels as best as you could. “But still,” he said, digging into his whole wheat vegetarian sandwich wrap of some kind, “you can’t go wrong going to Dubai this time of year, _non_?”

“Never,” Lukaku grinned, drawing the covers around him, a hand on his ipad making sure it didn’t slip from its position of his raised knees. “But you’re getting ready for another Scudetto, and the next matches of the Champions League...” his voice trailed off, as he tried not to let his envy creep in. 

Not that Paul didn’t deserve it --- of course he did--- to play at Juventus, a beautiful club with history and competing for honours both domestic and European. But -- at this Romelu pressed his clenched fist against his thigh. He wanted such honours too. However, Everton was not the club for it, nor would it be it for the near future. 

“You will get there,” Paul said, causing Lukaku to raise his head and frown. It wasn’t as if he had said it aloud. Well, okay, he had made his intentions clear in the media about where he wanted to be - but he would have never tried to tear down Paul’s achievements. 

At his look, Paul shook his head as he sipped at a glass of water. “You didn’t say anything,” he said, his features soft with understanding. “You don’t have to say anything, Rom, for me to know what you’re thinking.”

“That your hairstyle is shocking?”

At Paul’s scandalised gasp of breath, complete with pearl-clutching actions of his fingers splayed against his chest, Romelu laughed. 

“You don’t understand _identity_.”

“That you’re a Zebra? Claiming loyalty to your club?” 

“You’ve insulted me, and my barber’s honour,” Paul tried to pull off being insulted, but the twinkle in his eye undermined whatever effect of high dudgeon he tried to pull off. Which caused Romelu to laugh even harder, appreciating him. 

“Your barber insults your honour all the time, _mon ami_ ,” Romelu flicked his finger at the screen. “You shouldn’t be paying him, you should be suing him for distress.”

Paul did that Italian thing, that quick shrug and movement of hands signifying that aspect of the conversation now over. 

“What’s up, Paul?” Romelu asked in English this time. 

There were many things wrong with English, like the lack of formality inscribed in the state of address, and the inaccuracy of its words enough to drive you mad. Not to mention the treacherous ‘ed’ at the end of words which didn’t sound like what they looked like at all, but nothing beat it for its directness, even the flatness of its vowels enough to put you into that frame of mind. 

“I--” Paul started, elbow on the surface of the table, finger resting against his lips. “Mino spoke with me over the holiday,” he answered in English. Despite his time away from England, Paul still kept up with his English. The words shaped into a soft lilt in his accent, but his English still fluent. 

“Mino speaks with us all the time,” Romelu shrugged. “About staying and leaving... and leaving.” _And leaving_

“You’re always looking to leave, Rom,” Paul teased. “Always wanting to return to Chelsea, to be the next Drogba.”

“Isn’t that what football is though? Taking a journey to where you want to go? Or else you’d just stay with your boyhood club.”

“Touché,” Paul raised his glass of water as if in a form of salute. “I’d like to see you, as soon as we can. It’s been too long.”

It had been too long, with their schedules in different countries, and as much as they face timed and sent texts and sound files to each other, it wasn’t the same as being in the same space as each other, vibing off each other’s presence. But where would they even find the time? With the Euros coming up soon, and each game of increasing importance? 

But all Romelu said was, “What’s wrong with being the next Drogba?”

Paul grinned, before clicking off a goodbye.

***

_The Vinovo; 14 km from Turin_

“I love this game!” Patrice Evra threw his head back and screamed into the sky. 

Paulo Dybala shook his head, his frown making his dark brows slash downwards, his eyes glinting with suspicion, him clad in training gear looking like all of an angry bird. They were all training, doing five asides, but without the ball. 

Due to the chill and the rain on the wind, they worked inside, positioned on the mixed surface of the covered pitches, 

With Allegri's coaches watching on the side and muttering amongst themselves, complete with eloquent gesticulations, Paul and his teammates worked on shape and shadow. Moving in unison, one player falling into space when the other drifted out. To the uninitiated looking on, it might have seemed to be a meditation like a more animated version of tai chi, but without arms. 

At the whistle, they fell into their original shape, Paul getting to grips with sharing the field with Miralem Pjanic, another new addition. 

Miralem and Paulo, both players who drifted across the field, as smooth as ghosts. New players in the system, subtly changing their game to suit their new team as demanded. They did it now, moving into the same shapes again and again, drill after drill after drill.

Eventually, the coaches were satisfied for this parcel of training, blowing the whistle for a break.

***

“Paul,” Patrice dropped into the space beside him. They were between training times, and it made sense to hang around the Vinovo and wait for the next session, instead of driving home, sitting down and cooling your heels in order to return to the training centre later on.

Paul looked up from his iPad, his finger scrolling down the screen. 

“Patrice,” Paul arrowed a look at his teammate with a raised eyebrow. Patrice was one of those guys who had to be in constant motion, whose energies were seemingly untapped, and prone to do crazy things. He was not one to come into the players’ lounge in silence, and woe betide anyone who wanted tranquillity when he was in the building. 

“Ah, the Premier League,” Patrice pushed on, ignoring Paul’s cool tones. “Jose Mourinho, man, he’ll make everything beautiful again. ”

Beautiful meant Manchester United and trophies, Paul knew. 

The name Manchester United synonymous with footballing royalty. The flagship of the city, always painting it in its livery. _Manchester is always red_ , and such was Manchester United’s dominance, even painting the region in its livery. The North is red --- forget Liverpool. No-one remembered Liverpool. 

“Hmmph,” Paul shifted, crossing his ankles on the hassock before him. Might as well get comfortable, because Patrice would get the hint eventually and leave him alone. 

“But why are you looking at the Premier League?” Patrice continued, doing an expansive gesture which took in the lounge at Vinovo; the room they were in long and narrow, one wall ceiling to floor glass showing the pitches and the artfully placed bank of trees outside, giving pleasant and green views beyond the training fields. Shades of green, from the even rolling grass green of the football pitches to the deeper greens and teal greens of the cone-shaped canopy of trees in the distance. 

The room itself dotted with comfortable seating, ranging from the buttermilk colour of the sofa they were now seated on, to the pop of colours of individual seating. If you wanted magazines, they dotted the surface of low lying tables. Or a table tennis game --- go towards the back where your heart would take you there. Then, if they felt up for watching a movie or a game, a screen built into the far wall, showing moving pictures of the sights of Turin. The quiet splendour of the Turin Cathedral, the chilly and imposing beauty of the Palace of Venaria, the hauteur royalty of the local castle. 

No carpet underfoot, just hardboard floors but with enough spring to give way underfoot, for reasons that were lost to him. Now, Paul here, in the sofa in the corner of the room iPad balancing on his thighs with that cunning stand you got with its accompanying case. 

“It’s football,” Paul said, as he scrolled through the news. The Premier League’s reach online something to behold, even in Italian, but truth be told, he prefered reading the news of the Premier League in English. The league’s Twitter account had links to news all around the rest of the clubs, his search for Manchester United stopping when he saw a picture of Lukaku in the blue Everton kit, his stats about apps in games and shots. The speculation about his future and him being unhappy at Everton. 

“I know,” Patrice replied, his shoulder pressing into Paul’s. “But the English clubs... it’s not as if they will be Champion’s League contenders, no? If you want to win the Champions League, like everyone else, you either go to La Liga, or stay here, at Juventus. We have the weather, the food, the city... why go there?”

“I thought you liked it there?”

“Of course,” Patrice rolled his shoulders, the air of a man who had had adventures and enjoyed every single one of them, even the ones that failed. “But everything has its time, yes? I am here now, and so are you. This is our time.”

Paul stabbed at the screen, clicking out of the search. Irritated, but not knowing why, he faced his teammate. “How can I help you, Patrice?” he asked in English, applying the chilled distance that the English did so well. Employing the notes of passive aggression designed to rankle, but because the person in the crosshairs couldn’t respond to it directly without being rude, they tended to move away than be flustered. 

Patrice though, was Patrice. He too had lived in England, knew the manoeuvre and how to nullify it. “Nothing,” he said, “I’m enjoying these beautiful surroundings, with my beautiful teammate. You are already helping me by being here.”

“ _Tu es fou_ ,” Paul laughed, despite himself. You could never be in a bad mood around Patrice for too long. Annoyed at him, sure, but then he’d do something that made you swing into laughter before doing something else that made you shake your head with the madness of it.

***

**Stamford Bridge; Feb 05, 2012**

**Chelsea vs Manchester United**

Romelu sat in the stands, arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowing at the game set out before him. Chelsea three up, the fans around him cheering and jumping at every shot, every tackle, every bad tempered spark between the blues and the reds. 

He could hear his coach now, giving him instructions about how to watch the game, observe the shape of it, the decisions made by players in fractions of a second that would change the outlook of the game. But, what was the point, eh? If he wasn’t going to play?

Romelu wasn't just a fan of Chelsea - he was also a _player_ , and what was the point of -

A goal firing off the boot of Rooney, launching into and stretching the back of the net, emitting a roar from the Manchester United faithful in the travelling fans section. The din enough to make the stadium rumble, the noise a taut, live wire of a thing. 

If he’d been on the pitch, Romelu told himself, he would have been drawing space, running off Evans who had a -- and his brain blanked at the English expression they used over here. Before he had a chance to think about it and scratch at it, a movement caught his attention. 

Someone in a red oversized bomber jacket with the Manchester United logo on its sleeves. Dark skin, cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese on, eyebrows done in a design that make them look like feathers. 

The game now forgotten, Romelu uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, and before he had the chance to wave, to get the guy’s attention - because he _knew_ him- their gazes caught, locked. 

In the crush of the crowd, along with the babel of grunts, shouts and aggrieved cries from the Chelsea supporters as Manchester United launched a comeback - _Merde_ \- clashing with the noisy, boozy, antagonistic cheers of the travelling Manchester United crowd, it wasn’t the time to speak, much less think. 

Romuelu gestured to the crowd, then pointed to himself. The other person mirroring his moves, and as one, shook their heads and rolled their shoulders. 

_Tough times, eh?_

They weren’t even on the bench, clad in the kit of their team, with the promise of even going out there. No, they were in the stands, as far away from team action as the moon was from the earth. 

Going on instinct now, wanting to see if he felt the same way, or their mutual communication was just a one-off, Romelu tapped at his wrist, and made a motion with his other hand, fingers in a closed fist, thumb jerking towards the exits. 

_Talk later?_ he mouthed, widening his eyes and exaggerating the movement of his mouth for maximum effect. 

A frown, accompanied with a nod, topped with a grin. Romelu in spite of the fact that Chelsea were now being _hounded_ by Manchester United- that the rumours of their death were greatly exaggerated - grinned back.

***

“Paul Pogba,” the lad introduced himself as soon as the game was finished, and they met at the edge of the mixed zone. It would be a while before the players of both teams came out, because they had to do interviews with various TV companies for exclusive rights, same thing with the managers as they had to talk about the result and what it meant. The reporters in the huddle cordoned off by the temporary railings put up, their cameras, microphones and recorders at the ready.

Paul and Lukaku in their street clothes, dismissed by reporters because they were just seen as academy scholars, not even worthy of a byline. 

“Romelu Lukaku,” he smiled, as they traded a handshake. “My friends call me Rom.”

“Ah, so Rom, then,” Paul continued in English. 

“You’re not my friend.”

“ _Mate_ ,” Paul said, and he made that word sound impressively French, although it was so quintessentially English. “We’re stragglers on the outside of big clubs trying to get in, if that’s not the basis of a friendship, I don’t know what is, _non_?”

“I can’t believe Manchester United came back,” Romelu grumbled, the game had ended three all. 

“That’s what big clubs do,” Paul grinned, teeth worrying his bottom lip. 

“ _Pleurislijer_ ,” Romelu spat, because despite everything, Chelsea was still his club, and he wouldn’t be a blue if he hadn’t pushed back against Paul’s taunt. However, the comment couldn’t be denied. 

“We should have been on the pitch,” Paul groused, his eyes flashing with the injustice of it. “We could have shown them a thing or two.”

“Probably.”

“No need for false modesty,” Paul shook his head, “if we didn’t think we were good enough, we wouldn’t have said yes to our teams.”

“And yet,” Romelu slipped into French, “they don’t think we’re ready. It does something to your confidence, _non_?”

“ _Non_ ,” Paul shook his head. “It shows that they aren’t ready for us. “

The first flash from the camera stunned Romelu back into the now. “Ah,” he said, realising that their time was almost up, because the reporters were now ready with cameras and microphones to capture the first players as they started to stroll into the mixed zone, oversized headphones over their ears. 

The Chelsea players taking the coach to Cobham, and Paul would be catching the coach to go up North to Trafford Training Centre with his team. “We have to go.”

“Of course,” Paul slipped his phone out of his pocket. “But before you run off, give me your number, eh?”

“First you call me Rom,” Romelu huffed, “and now you’re asking me for my number, like we’re friends.”

“Ahhh, because we are,” Paul wagged the slimline cell phone in Romelu’s direction as if it were a finger. “You’ll see I’m right, that we’ll be best mates.”

“I see you talk too much,” Romelu said, taking Paul’s phone and tapping his number in there. “Here’s my number. You can contact me, if you dare.”

Paul gave him a thumbs up. “I dare,” he said, before turning on his heel and running toward the dressing room. “I have to _goooo_.”

Romelu stood there for a minute, half frowning, only to realise that he’d left his backpack at Chelsea’s front office, and he had to hustle himself before they closed, leaving him with his phone, but no credit cards. 

Shit, he had to hustle too. 

Later, when Romelu jumped into bed, computer open and in front of him, as he watched MOTM on the widescreen TV and the highlights of the matches in played in front of his eyes, his phone rang. 

Eyes still on the screen, he picked it up, with a distracted _Hallo_. 

“I dare.” 

Romelu couldn’t help his grin, his fingers tightening briefly around the phone. Paul’s voice teasing in his ear, filled with mischief. 

“So you do,” restless now, Romelu pushed his computer off his lap, and slid to the side of the bed, ready to stand up. 

“What are you doing, watching _MOTM_? Never! They think they are so wise, discussing a time that ended twenty years ago, as soon as they left the game.” 

“Always good to listen to history.”

“Even better to make it,” Paul finished. 

“You didn’t call me to boast about your team.”

“Nah,” Paul said, his voice a constant as Romelu pushed himself from his bed and walked around the room, stopping by his window. At this time of the year, the evenings foggy, so much so that the streetlights seemed to float in the gloom. “We didn’t win, and you can’t boast about a draw.”

“So you called me because...”

“I like the face you show. You there sitting in the stands, and not enjoying it and not caring that everyone knows.”

“Sour times,” Romelu agreed, “there’s no need to pretend otherwise, no? If I wanted to only watch Chelsea, I would have stayed at Anderlecht.”

“Yes,” Paul answered before silence fell between them. Enough for him to hear voices in the background, a smattering of French, asking Paul if he had washed some dishes, and Paul sighing. _Non, maman, pas encore. Vous n’avez pas besoin --_

His mother now scandalised, shouting something in return causing Paul to sigh, and laugh. 

“Rom, my friend, I have to go. My mother is demanding that I wash the dishes.”

“You can’t say no to mothers,” Romelu agreed. 

“Not for dishes, anyway,” Paul muttered. 

“I’m not your friend though.”

“Bye, Rom!”

At the click, Romelu looked at his phone, realising that Paul was one of those who insisted on having the last word. He shook his head. Never mind, in football friendships tended to peter out, and with them in separate teams in different parts of the country, it wasn’t as if geographically this made sense.

***

_January 2016_

“Happy New Year, you little fart,” Mino’s voice boomed at the end of the line. 

“Happy New Year to _you_ , you big fart.” Paul laughed. Already back in Turin, out on the balcony of his home, swaddled in heavy robe and a cap that would have been called ‘Santa Claus’ if it weren’t for the fact that it was all white, with the tell-tale Adidas silver tri lines along its edges. 

“So, have you thought about it? Returning to Manchester United? Mourinho is still dead set on wanting you. “

“And Manchester United?”

“ _Pffft_ ,” Mino made a sound of air expelling through his lips. “You know what English clubs are like, especially if the manager is blue chip like Mourinho. Whomever the manager wants, the club's gonna get. Most importantly -they are willing to pay to get. You just need to flutter your lashes, and send a come and get me plea.”

Paul looked out at the view before him, Turin as picturesque as any city he’d lived in. Especially better than Manchester. 

“I like Juventus,” he stroked his chin, keeping the rest of his thoughts to himself. Juventus had given him everything. Gave him the answers to the questions that he’d asked himself when he’d been at Manchester United, sitting in the stands, trading looks with Rom at Chelsea. Giving him honours that he craved, a canvas to paint his own identity. 

But. 

Juventus, as much of a Grand Old Lady she was, despite her aggressive branding, was a one-eyed god in a village of blind men. Their old foes of Inter and AC Milan hindered by mismanagement and decay and young teams like Atalanta leagues away. 

The Premier League a bigger canvas, a bigger stage. A siren song that only got louder as the season got longer. 

“How is Rom?” he asked, changing the subject. 

“In the midst of the Christmas fixtures,” Mino replied with a smack of his lips. Paul could imagine Mino now, in his flat in Amsterdam, making moves about which clients wanted or a needed a move come the summer. “But you should know that. Don’t be a stranger, eh? Text him. Or have you two fallen out?”

“No,” Paul laughed, shaking his head, resting one hand on the balcony. “Like you say, it’s Christmas fixtures, so if he’s not playing, he’s in recovery, _non_?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mino said, his disinterest in the trials of elite athletes quite clear. “I get tired just thinking about it.”

“Night, Mino.”

“Night, you beautiful bastard.”

“Night, you fat bastard.”

“Fat, _beautiful_ bastard, get it right.” Mino rang off to Paul’s guffaws.

***

**February 2016**

Through some stroke of luck, Everton had a week between matches. In February. 

“If by ‘stroke of luck’ you mean, playing like shit, and getting washed out of both domestic cups, and forget about a title challenge,” Romelu fumed as he snapped his seatbelt in place, before dropping his head against the plush headrest. “Then yes, Everton are having _succes_.” 

“Poor Rom,” Paul clicked in notes of sympathy, over Tupac and Doctor Dre’s _California Love_ pumping over the speaker. 

Romelu closed his eyes briefly, glad to be Turin, as Paul slipped from the side roads onto the wide road, and due to the time of day, the traffic thinned. Although the temperature in Turin hit single figures, it was still better than being in Liverpool. He’d asked for and gotten a few days to relax and recharge. The Canaries too far, and Dubai just too much. Right now, he needed a friend, someone who’d lift his spirits- and not judge- Paul was all that and then some. 

The drive to Paul’s flat blessedly uneventful, including Paul not saying a word, leaving Romelu to unwind. Turin still as beautiful as he remembered, the architecture baroque and fussy, the wheels skidding over cobblestones in some parts. In the distance, the Alps capped by bright snow and swathed by curtains of clouds and haze. 

He didn’t feel moved to say anything until he’d unpacked his clothing and washed and changed in the spare room and en-suite Paul had prepared for him. 

Not only until they sat down to squash risotto, prepared by Paul’s chef, served with a medley of vegetables at the side, did Romelu feel unbent enough to vent. Now seated at the table in the warmly decorated kitchen/dining room. 

“Just... ridiculous,” he seethed. “A year ago, we were in Europe. So okay, it’s only Europa, eh--” 

“Only Europa?” Paul interjected, looking up from his meal, shaking his head over his glass of green juice. He tutted. “You sound like an Englishman.” 

“Please,” Romelu scoffed, “as if you’re at Juventus to play Europa League matches.”

“There’s a Champions’ League place at the end of it, no? But by all means, “ Paul made an exaggerated graceful gesture in Romelu’s direction. ”Please, continue.” 

“ _Merci_ ,” Romelu answered grandly, with a nod of his head. “As I was saying, we were in Europa, and I enjoyed it. Even though we weren’t near to the top of the table in the domestic league, we were in Europe. And now... pahh, we’re nearer to relegation than staying up. I know my worth, the importance of my goals, and I want more.”

“Of course.” 

This is where Romelu looked up at his friend and smiled. 

Paul’s matter of fact tones made him feel confident in his decisions, to know that he wasn’t asking for too much, was he? That Everton wasn’t his level- although they’d nurtured him - he was right to ask for bigger, to ask for _more_. 

“I want what you have,” Romelu sipped at his fruit smoothie, as constructed by Paul’s chef. A lot of green and sprouts, but sweetened with coconut and a dash of smoky maple syrup for flavour. “I want to be competing for honours, to be playing in Europe every year. But--- in the PL.”

“Chelsea?”

“Yes,” Romelu admitted. “It might be my...” he snapped his fingers. “What’s the name of that book with the _baleine blanche_?”

“Hmm... I don’t know, sorry. But Chelsea ... _baleine blanche_? Like something you want but you can’t have but are still looking for it?”

“Yes, Chelsea is my _baleine blanche_. I wish to return.”

“To be the next Drogba."

“To be the first Romelu.” 

***

“I do want to leave Everton, although I respect the club,” Romelu said eventually. After dinner, they’d decided it had been too cold to go out, so they sprawled in Paul’s bed, watching a movie that he didn’t know the name off. “It has helped me, has made me but... The club is going where I don’t want it to go. I’m tired of playing against big teams and we can’t be brave and attack, but defend, defend, defend.”

“You want to stay in the English Premier League?”

Romelu looked at the high ceiling, not seeing anything in front of his eyes but his dreams and desires. To storm out in the blue of Chelsea, the crest of the lion over his beating heart. His goals in the back of the net, the service at the level with midfielders of Paul’s quality, stupendous. 

“ _Oui_ ,” he said at last. 

“But why?”

“Every week there’s a fight. In the Premier League, there are six big teams. There’s Chelsea, the two Manchester clubs, Liverpool, Arsenal and now... Tottenham Hotspur. Be it a win or a loss,” he continued, turning his head towards Paul, his cheek against the cool pillowcase. “The world knows. At times, half the world is watching what I do on the stage, and ready to cheer or curse me when I score against their teams. Why wouldn’t I want to stay in the Premier League?”

Paul’s mouth twisted into a _moue_ of thought, the dazzle of the diamonds in the P earrings picking up the light in the room, the diamonds almost blinding against the white on white. 

After a long while, Paul nodded, “Why wouldn’t you?” he said.

***

**March 2016: Tubeke, Belgium NT HQ**

Romelu got called up to the national team, the honour a point of pride chased with a bit of suffering. 

A point of pride because despite his club, his goals stood out, telling of his _quality_ , but suffering, because of the teams his fellow national teammates played for versus ... his team. 

Courtois and Hazard played for Chelsea, Dembélé, Alderweireld, Vertonghen and Chadli played for Tottenham Hotspur, a team seemingly growing stronger every season under their manager, not to mention Kompany and De Bruyne at Manchester City --- and these were the ones who played in the biggest clubs in the Premier League. 

And him? He played for Everton, a club that wasn’t even the biggest club in _Liverpool_.

“Rom,” and that was Jan with two soft drinks in hand, as he offered one to Romelu. Due to the spate of fixtures around the international break, they were staying overnight at a hotel near the training ground, and because it seemed like fun, they hired someone to teach them how to line dance. 

This in the hotel’s living room, the floor cleared of tables, and couches lined along the walls for other players to sit and chat amongst themselves. 

In the distance, Eden, Kevin, Toby and Mousa in gallon hats, and leather chaps tied around their training bottoms, as they went through the steps with their teacher, Barbara, a lithe blonde who was so stereotypically _Texan_ , dressed in plaid shirt , snug jeans and cowboy boots, her accent encouraging and warm. 

The rest of the team hooting and hollering on the side, with their phones and video cameras on. 

“Y’all are doing _quite well_ ,” Barbara encouraged, as she stood to one side, watching them do their heel digs and grape vines. Eden a quick study as he tripped through the moves with an ease that caught everyone off guard. 

“ _Nee_ !” Mousa grinned, his smile lighting up his face. “Let me try.”

“Dance off?” Toby asked, angling the Stetson hat on his head just so, because everyone knew he didn’t want to ruin his hair.

“ _Ja_ ,” Mousa nodded, as he looked towards their tutor. “Barbara?”

“Okay!” Barbara nodded, extending a hand to the deejay in the corner, and this was Nacer, ready for his closeup. At Barbara’s nod, Nacer flicked on the switch, and the strains of a song asking some woman to not break his heart, his achy breaky heart tripped out of the speaker. 

The quartet really good, their footwork quick and clean, as they stepped on, toes pointing and resting on their heels in unison. 

Despite everyone doing the same style of dance, their personalities showed; Eden and Kevin’s moves languid and steady but in a different way. Mousa and Toby, you got the feeling that there was a heat of competition between the two, one hand holding the hat in place, the other one on their hip. Their zigzags across the floor, their trainers a bit of a squeak as they put their moves in, cowboy boots ruled out due to health and safety concerns. 

Romelu sipped at his drink, and rolled his eyes. 

Toby and Mousa’s steps were getting more and more ambitious as the song went on, and he had a funny feeling that it was something a bit sharper than just a dance rivalry between themselves as teammates. Half suspicious, he slid a look in Jan’s direction, Jan looking at them both with an expression of bemusement. 

“You and Harry Kane are in contention for the Golden Boot this year, I think,” Jan turned to him, leaving Toby and Mousa to their dancing. Romelu couldn’t help but smirk. Agüero who?

“ _Ja_ , I feel good about it this year.”

“Harry might have something to say about that,” Jan smiled.

“It doesn’t hurt that you have Eriksen,” Lukaku rolled his shoulders. “Everton doesn’t have that quality in midfield.”

“Which makes your goal tally more impressive,” Jan agreed, “because of the relative lack of service.”

“Yes. How does it feel, to be at a top club?”

Jan’s lips curved with wry amusement. “Ask Eden or Kevin, we still have some way to go at Tottenham. I think, under Pochettino, we’ll get there, but in this league, you never know.”

“True. But with Everton, we’ll never get there.”

“That’s --”

“Please,” Romelu shook his head, and tsked, “we know the top six clubs in the league that we play in, and Everton aren’t one of them.”

“So what are you thinking?” 

“You know.”

Jan took a long sip of his soft drink, his cheeks briefly ballooning with the liquid before he swallowed. “Have you signed a new contract?”

“No.”

“Will you --”

“I want to see what is out there for me.”

Jan narrowed his eyes, the blue of them now opaque and cool. “Good luck.”

***

_May 2016_

“Yes,” Paul said, as soon as Mino’s face registered on face time. The slack-jawed expression on Mino’s face would have amused him some other time, but not now. 

“No shit?” Mino’s usual bellow now a squeak of amusement. He loved that Americanism, as vile as it was. 

“No shit.”

***

“Really?” Patrice greeted as soon as Paul swung his car into the parking lot of their training ground. He walked on, covering the ground with long, loping strides, Patrice half jogging to keep up at his side.

“When you wanted to leave Manchester United in 2012, I begged you to stay, to be a legend. But no, you decide to go off to Juventus, and listen - I was _wrong_ to tell you to stay, because you’re now a legend here,” Patrice continued as he walked behind Paul from car park to locker room. “Everything is better here, tactics, food, weather... the city,” a besotted sigh as he kissed the tips of his fingers, his eyes fluttering closed with comical effect. “ _Les femmes_.”

Paul now at his locker, toeing off his trainers and shucking off his shell jacket as he readied himself for the training ahead. 

“Why would you leave Serie A? Why turn your back on a sure thing? You have another chance for a Scudetto, and in line for a Champions League triumph.”

“You’re thinking about leaving Juventus.”

“That is ...different,” Patrice waved away Paul’s suggestion. “I’m nearing the end of the song of my career, and you... you are still _building_ up to the aria in yours.”

Paul actually liked Patrice.

Yes, he was crazy and annoying, but when it came to advice, he definitely wasn’t malicious and his heart more times than not, always in the right place. It was this affection for Patrice that made him turn around, and place his hands on his teammate’s shoulders. 

“I’ll still be singing my aria, Patrice,” he squeezed Patrice’s shoulders, dropped his forehead against his friend’s, who was shorter than him by a head. “Just not here.”

“ _Mais... pourquoi_?” 

Paul gently pushed his friend away, and before he turned his back to Patrice, he gave an answer that said everything and nothing at the same time. 

“I have unfinished business there.”

***

**Beverly Hills, late July, 2016**

When Romelu finally met up with Paul in Beverly Hills, he’d expected to find his friend low in spirit from his exertions from Euro 2016.

It had been a competition of shocks; England going out at the hands of Iceland _after_ the result of _that_ referendum. France growing into the competition with _swagger_ dispatching all and sundry, having the air of princes to be crowned kings in their own country... only to be held at bay by Portugal in the end. 

After the match when the French players staggered around as if dazed and punch drunk, Romelu half expected for Paul to beg off their planned holiday. 

“No, why?” Paul asked, “life goes on Rom, we know this. You can sit down and reflect on your losses, but if you aren’t careful, you look up and your career is over, no?”

That made sense. 

Also, summer didn’t exist in his mind unless he and Paul spent time together. Either breaking out their computers and keyboards to create music pieces only they and their entourage heard, or playing basketball in the Californian sunshine. 

Paul oddly in fine spirits, as they met each other at their hired mansion with a warm half hug. 

The day something out of an Instagram picture; the sky as clear and blue as photoshop would allow, reflected in the infinity pool. It gave the illusion of the sky transmogrified into water in midair. The Pacific far enough in the distance to the point where it seemed a static ultramarine line. 

They were away from club football.

Given their participation in the competition they would be coming back later than footballers who weren’t, and spent their evenings teasing their chef as she cooked meals for themselves and their entourage, Romelu felt moved to ask him over a light meal of fruit salad on the kitchen island, “Are you sure you’re not a... _pod person_? What have you done with my friend, Paul?”

“Ah,” Paul wagged his fork, “so I’m your friend now, eh?”

Romelu laughed. “You’ve always been, from the beginning. But this isn’t you? You’re always so much _fire_ but after the Euros you are calm, you are water, almost like... me.”

“Because there’s something else. In football, there’s always something else, no?”

The fork dropped from Romelu’s slackened fingers onto the kitchen island. His hand grabbing the edge of the stool in order to stop him from sliding off. 

And just like that, he knew. 

Oh, the rumours were there, thick and fast. To the point where he’d felt bold enough to ask Mino- their shared agent-if there had been any truth to them. 

“It’s the English press,” Mino had scoffed over the phone, the sound of water splashing and people laughing in the background. One of the parties he’d always found himself at, although he swore to both Romelu and Paul that he hated to go to, because he found himself to be too much man for the deckchairs, and got tired of asking for the weight allowances before sitting down. “They have you down as going to Chelsea, Rom. I mean, seriously, are you going to Chelsea?”

 _I’d like to_ , the unspoken answer between them, and that’s one of the reasons why he had let the matter drop.

Now, in this split moment, in the kitchen, he realised that although he and Paul were friends, they weren’t on the same level. 

That Paul could get these deals and be linked with these clubs and the concept wasn’t too wild. 

Raising his head, his eyes wide with realisation he _knew_

“You’re going to Manchester United.”

***

Sunset, and Romelu found himself sitting at the edge of the pool, watching the sun doing its last dance of death as it sank into the sea. Going out in a blaze, the ocean a riot of oranges, reds and warm yellows, edged with purple as the twilight started to creep in.

Paul not here, but in the other part of the house observing _Salat_. If he’d remembered correctly, it would be _Maghrib_. 

Not that he could say for sure, just knew that when Paul disappeared into his room at set times in the day, Romelu knew he disappeared to pray, and left him to it. Paul’s observance of his rites of religion as a part of him as his habit of needing to have the last word in everything. 

_Because I’m right,_ Paul’s voice piped up from the margins of his mind. 

_No, you’re not. Now shut it_

An enduring image of Paul observing _dua’a_ came to mind. Clad in the black and white colours of Juventus in the middle of the field. His hands raised and pressed against his face, then cupped in front of him. His face a picture of serenity for those few moments before the game started, eyes closed, his observation of faith as he asked for - whatever he asked for- Romelu never thought to pry. 

He slipped into the water, warm and a pleasant accompaniment to this mild summer’s evening, and because it was exercise, he pushed off from the edge of the pool and started to swim.

***

“I’m going to Manchester United,” Paul affirmed, as they wrapped themselves in fluffy robes much later, now seated in deck chairs by the edge of the pool. The cook had long retired to bed, and most of their entourage peeled off to their own rooms in the wings of the house.

“I mean,” he amended, “if these things work out, but deals are... complicated.”

“I thought you didn’t want to leave Juventus.”

“I have...” Paul worried his lip with his teeth. “Unfinished business. I had to leave Manchester United because they weren’t going to give me a chance, and I needed to play.”

“I understand. The same reason why I left Chelsea. If they wanted me to play, they would have let me play.”

“Exactly, and Juventus --- I have nothing but love for The Old Lady-- and if I’d stayed I’d have been very comfortable, but.”

“But.”

“There’s also Mourinho. When a manager like that wants you-you don’t say no, do you?”

“No,” Romelu agreed, “you don’t say no.”

***

**August 06. 2016**

The video dropped with the hashtag.

**#POGBACK #FIRSTNEVERFOLLOWS**

48 seconds of Stormzy, a grime artist of some renown smashing bars, and Paul, charisma and presence turned up to red alert, your brain might have been in danger of bursting from the awesomeness.

Not that Romelu was jealous. 

Much. 

Especially not when Paul was now living _here_ in England. 

Playing _here_ in the Premier League, and so what about eighty-nine million pounds transfer fee? It’s not like he demanded the price tag on his head anyway. 

“I forget how physical the PL can be,” Paul said at the end of the game, Everton hosting Manchester United, the crowd snarling and snapping at each tackle, each pass. The air ugly, frigid, tense. Just the way Romelu liked it. 

The score something that he could live with. 

The game-ending 1-1. 

It was so strange, seeing Pogba in the Manchester United kit, his hair platinum blonde, his hands on hips as they stood and talked after the game, slowly walking off the pitch towards the tunnel that took them to their dressing room. 

“Oh yeah?”

“And the fact that there’s no Christmas break. Ah, Rom,” Paul grinned, “what have I gotten myself into?”

“So why did you come back?” 

“Because like you said, in the PL, there are six teams that you need to outfox. In Italy, there’s only one. It’s a bigger stage, _non_ , win, lose or draw, the whole world sees you. Besides...” Paul waggled his brows. “I actually like Manchester.”

Romelu rolled his eyes. _Cheshire, you mean,_ he wanted to say, but seriously, it was great to have Paul here, back in England. 

“And the club?”

“The players are quality, the manager is magnifico. We’re assured of least a trophy under Mourinho.”

***

**May 2017**

“No shit?” Mino asked, his voice thin over the crackling of the phone line. “You’re not going to extend? After I just rang off from _Talksport_ telling Jim White that you were going to sign a new contract with Everton?

“It’s not my fault you have a big mouth, Mino.”

“Fair," Mino said, before breaking off to thank someone for his dry martini. 

“Where are you?”

“New York, it’s something like 8:00 am over here, and it’s beautiful, beautiful. Statue of Liberty in the distance, views of Central Park... the best burger and fries... But back to you. So we’re moving on, then?”

“Yeah,” Romelu nodded, as he sat in his SUV in Finch Farm’s parking lot, the windows up and closed. “We are.”

“Okay, fine. Any choice of club?”

“I want to play Champions League.”

“Everyone wants to play Champions League. It’s the new, ‘All I really want is World Peace’. Fuck.” 

After a few tense moments over the line, Mino continued, tone conciliatory, because Romelu knew he was calculating his cut of the transfer. “It's fine. We can make it work. I will make enquiries, drop some hints to a few sources in the media to stir up interest. You know Everton won’t make it easy.”

Understatement of the year. 

Everton prided themselves on holding on to players until they didn’t want to. The John Stones saga going on all of 2015/16 to the point of Chelsea moving on. Man City swooped in shortly after, and it nearly fell apart because Everton put enough of a vice grip on the contract in order to squeeze blood from a-ha- stone. 

“I have two years remaining on my contract. Everton won’t risk it running down any further, they’ll let me go.”

“Is it because of Koeman? If so, look-”

“No,” Romelu answered truthfully. It was just... time.

***

**July 2017**

#REDROM

The hashtag trended on Twitter for a full day. The news catching people by surprise. This tweet by @Manudowhatudo indicative of the mood.

@Manudowatudo: “Wait. Wasn’t Lukaku supposed to be going to --Chelsea?”

@Fireemojitweet: “Isn’t that... Stormzy?”

@Chelseaforever: “But why Manchester United, why Mourinho? Just... WHY? He was supposed to return home!

***

**January 2017**

“You belong with us, join us.”

“Happy New Year,” Romelu greeted as soon as he answered the door, and Paul strolled in from the cold and wet, shucking off his coat and handing it to his friend as soon as the door closed behind them both. Winter in Liverpool was no joke. Technically, they were already ten days into January, but the sentiment still had merit. 

“What are your New Year’s resolutions?”

“To win the Europa League, to get back into the Champions League, where we belong,” Paul replied, now sprawling across Romelu’s coach in his front room. “And to win everything else that’s there for the taking.” 

“You think you’ll win Europa?” 

“I _know_ we’ll win Europa. Zlatan is a lion, and Mourinho feels incomplete without silverware. Six can’t go into four, _mon ami_. So we do it this way.”

“Ah.”

“I know you want to return to Chelsea,” Paul said soon after, his head a warm, heavy weight on Romelu’s shoulder. After a little while, and a lot of toe-poking in the ribs by Romelu, he had relented, allowing Romelu to have a share of his _own_ couch, so generous. “But we’ve always said that we’d play together one day.”

“True,” Romelu drawled, flicking through the channels, his remote pointed at the TV. He didn’t want to watch _Football Focus_ or any football package on Sky or BT Sport, not today. He found a Dutch language news channel based in Belgium and left it there. Seeing familiar snow-capped buildings, and places that he knew from Belgium tugged at his heartstrings for a bit, but for the sake of his career, England was home. 

“Why not make ‘one day’ be The Day. Let’s make it come sooner than we think? Me in midfield, you up front... we’ll be magnificent. We will tear the league apart.”

“I have unfinished business at Chelsea, just as how you have at Manchester United. “

“Manchester United is a bigger club, with a bigger reach. Why rock up to Chelsea with the ghosts of Drogba around your person when you can come to Manchester United and be the first Rom?”

When he said it like that... “I will think about it,” Romelu replied. “Besides, it’s not as if Mourinho --”

“You’re smart which helps. You’re also big and strong, you bully defenders, and know your way around the field. You are what we need. Zlatan is... Zlatan, but he’s nearing the end, as much as he thinks he can will time to stand still. Don’t tell me that you’ll ‘think about it’. Tell Mino to do it.”

Romelu laughed, “We'll see.” 

He would have left it _there_ , at that, if Paul hadn’t looked at him at said the thing that mattered most. 

“C’mon, Rom. I left Juventus to return here, to return home. But home isn’t just a team or a place. It’s friends and family, and you’re both. We’ve spent long enough being alone and far away with other clubs, and attending to other ambitions. At Manchester United, our goals will be the same, and no less incredible. Titles, Champions’ League, everything. Let’s do this together.”

“Your unfinished business,” Romelu smiled at his friend, and when Paul returned it, everything just ... slotted into place. “It’s us.”

“Hasn’t it always? We ride or Die, Rom. But let it be known, for the record, that I’d rather ride than die.”

“ _Ah mate_.” 

“So that’s a yes then?”

“That’s a yes,” Romelu agreed, but knowing the ways of football to be cautious enough about things. “If it happens.”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Pogba and Lukaku share the same agent, Mino Raiola. 
>   * Paul Pogba transferred to United from Juventus in August 2016. This video [by Stormzy (a local grime artist who's a BIG Man United fan) announced it ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Jfn-U6EGzU)
>   * Lukaku joined Manchester United from Everton in July 2017. He was expected to go to Chelsea, but supposedly Chelsea didn't want to pay his manager's fees. Considering Mino Raiola got some stupid money over the Pogba transfer, I can't say I blame them
>   * The 'Stormzy looks like Lukaku' joke is a running one. But it got less funny [when an Irish paper mistook Lukaku for Stormzy](https://www.standard.co.uk/news/uk/i-dont-find-this-funny-stormzy-fuming-after-newspaper-mixup-with-footballer-romelu-lukaku-a3584361.html) Whoops 
>   * Stomzy also [looks like Benteke, too](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yp9vZ1JAMkE&t=135s)
>   * A lot of Muslim players 'make dua' before the whistle goes for the start of the game. [Muslim footballers on Twitter is a Twitter account that has some great photos showing this meaningful observance of prayer. ](https://twitter.com/theamf/status/637642428841861120)
>   * Manchester United have been hitting it out of the park with their hashtags. #POGBACK was the hashtag used for Pogba's return to Manchester United and #REDROM is a play on Redrum which is 'murder' spelt backwards. Bleacher Report did a lot of good work around Mourinho badgering the Man United owners to get Lukaku over the line. 
> 

> 
> If you've made it this far, thanks for reading!


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